


see you when i fall asleep

by emwrites



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 13:58:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emwrites/pseuds/emwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>nick's gone and harry's slowly going too.</em>
</p><p>based on my interpretation of little talks by of monsters and men. most likely not the original meaning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**I don’t like walking around this old and empty house  
So hold my hand, I’ll walk with you my dear ~~**

_Thirty three days since._

It’s colder than usual for September, much colder and wetter and overall more miserable and that fact alone is a big enough indication that Harry should most definitely not leave bed today, or tomorrow, or ever.

Four weeks and in all that time the boys still insist on dropping by one by one, or sometimes in small groups, pairs, threes, until finally all four show up together and try so very hard with all their might to persuade him out of his new-found permanent residence. _The shows are on hold, it’s killing them to see him this way, he can’t stay like this forever_ , and all that. It hurts Harry to see Niall look as though he’s about to burst into tears at the sight of him but the hurt inside Harry is worse, far worse than that. So when Louis finally asks in complete exasperation if what they’re saying is making any difference and Harry shakes his head, he can only close his eyes and pretend not to hear the four sighs tainted with disappointment.

With that they apparently give up for the day, leaving without too many words to let him sleep. Sleep is far more bearable than reality-- well, not entirely; the nightmares are a whole other ball game, the subject matter of which Harry prefers to forget. Drunken sleep is the best, far too heavy for silly dreams, and the various empty bottles littering the room are enough to suggest that many of Harry’s nights have been more alcohol induced comas than normal-person-sleeping.

After the boys have gone, Nick shows up to visit, and it’s the first good thing to happen all week. _Nick makes everything better_ , Harry thinks. Always. He was the first person since Louis to be absolutely everything Harry had ever needed in a person, and that was special. He was special. Is special, still.

He shows up completely unannounced (not that Harry minds) and strides into the bedroom, exuding confidence and that whole shiny happiness thing that never seems to go away when he's present.

“Well you’re in a right state then, young Harold,” he says with a grin, and Harry moans, stuffing his face under a pillow.

“Sleepy,” is all he can manage, and Nick sighs.

“Does Harry Styles need a waking up song?” He asks Harry.

“No. Condescending. Absolutely not.” Harry mumbles in reply.

Too late.

Barely a second later and Harry’s ears are filled with the sound of Pharoahe Monch screaming at him to _get the fuck up_ because this is home and this is the real Nick Grimshaw, not a censored radio show.

“Nothing like a bit of hardcore hiphop in the morning,” Nick’s voice and the same words Harry’s heard on the radio a million times before float across the room from somewhere near the window. Figuring there’s no longer any means of escape and sleep is definitely not an option, he rolls over and removes the pillows from his face.

“Where is that even coming from?” Harry asks, and Nick only smiles.

“You gonna get out of bed then or what?”

Harry pulls a face. “Hey. That’s my line.”

“Not anymore, sleeping idiot,” Nick laughs as he speaks and his smile must be contagious because in the pause between his words Harry can feel it sneaking onto his lips. It’s the first time he’s smiled in ages, which makes it all the more wonderful. “Up then. Breakfast, trust me, you look like you need it more than you think you do. Come on, I’ll help.”

Harry doesn’t protest even though he knows that by ‘help’ Nick means ‘watch and then eat’ and pulls himself out of bed. His legs sway a little under his weight; like sea legs when you step off a boat for the first time in ages, only they’re not sea legs, they’re... bed legs. It’s been a while, other than the odd toilet trip. He grabs his favourite beanie off the chair that sits in the corner next to the door and stuffs his hair into it, because it’s gross and oily and really quite frightful to look at. It sort of feels good to be up and about and for some reason Harry knows he needn’t bother to turn around, because he just knows that Nick is smiling at him and knowing is enough.

Harry makes his way to the kitchen, Nick following a few steps behind. Nick takes a seat in one of the stools pushed underneath the island bench in the middle of the room. Harry opens the fridge, knowing Nick is still watching him, on the hunt for anything slightly decent that isn’t yet out of date. Nick laughs when he starts throwing almost everything into the bin and tells him he needs to get to the shops because relying on other people for food all the time is entirely unfair and really, quite rude. Harry raises his eyebrows in a way that says _excuse me but I bring you food when you’re working and cook all of your meals at home_. Nick understands, because he always knows what Harry’s _looks_ mean, and sighs.

“You’ve got me there,” he says.

“Good. Now shut up. I’m making pancakes.”

And that’s that. Nick watches intently as Harry throws things into bowls and then into the frying pan. Harry shows off because he can, flinging the pancake up into the air to flip it, positioning the pan exactly right to stop its fall. Nick pretends to be impressed like he always does when Harry shows off in the kitchen, but Harry’s not sure he really is anymore because he watches this happen so often that it can’t possibly be that extraordinary any more. Sunday morning is Pancake Day, and this is always how it goes.

Eventually there’s been enough impressive flipping to provide sufficient pancakes for two, and Harry makes up plates in pairs, each with four pancakes, three strawberries, one scoop of ice cream and on Nick’s, copious amounts of chocolate sauce. Unlike Harry, Nick’s never been one for healthy breakfasts, and is a firm believer in desert foods during the morning time.

“Nick?” Harry questions between bites.

“Yeah mate?”

“We can still do pancake day, right?”

Nick looks thoughtful for a moment. When the words come, they’re much softer than usual. “Only if you want to.”

Nick’s tone takes Harry by surprise, and he glances up from his meal, catching his reflection in the stainless steel of the fridge. His eyes widen at the sight of himself because _it’s still there_ , bright pink as the day they took the stitches out, _it’s still there_ and it’s flaming and obvious and raised and jagged and ugly. The bright pink scar that extends from the middle of his right eyebrow to his hairline, revealed now by the beanie pulling back the mop of his curly hair.

It’s like a punch to the stomach; all the wind going out of him at once. Slowly, he turns to face his left, to the seat in which Nick ought to be sitting.

Except that he’s not.

The chair’s pushed in, still. On the table, however, sits a plate of melted ice cream and soggy pancakes. Uneaten. Untouched.

And Harry feels himself pulling away from the counter and running towards the bathroom, but doesn't quite understand why until he feels himself retching over the toilet bowl, body shuddering through each heave of his stomach, until eventually he’s thrown up all the food he ate and possibly also some of his insides.

The sound of the explosion is ringing in his ears again, and he wonders how mad you have to have gone to be cooking breakfast under the command of a dead man.

-

**Some days I don’t know if I am wrong or right  
Your mind is playing tricks on you, my dear ~~**

Thirty three and a half days since.

It’s Niall that finds him eventually, hours later, _just dropping by to see if everything is ok and all_ is what he sings as he lets himself inside. Harry knows that it must have become apparent to Niall within a matter of seconds that everything is, in fact, not ok, because Harry’s guttural screams coming from the bathroom do not imply any sort of okay-ness, not at all.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Niall appear in the doorway. Harry hears the gasp, and it’s fair enough because what else can you do when you walk in on your best friend writing on the floor drenched in their own sweat, screaming out unintelligible nothings?

After a long moment there’s footsteps, and suddenly Harry feels himself being lifted from the bathroom floor. Niall says he’s taking him back to bed, all the way there asking _you alright mate? _Harry doesn’t quite understand because that morning they were all over trying to get him out of the bed. He rolls back onto the mattress when they arrive, and turns to face Niall, eyes manic.__

__“Me? Alright?” He asks Niall, who’s still looking at him expectantly, as if a rational answer might still be hiding in there somewhere._ _

__“Harry...” Niall whispers, but Harry's next question stops him._ _

__“You wanna know what I did today, Niall?”_ _

__“What, Harry?”_ _

___“I cooked breakfast for a dead man.”_ _ _

__The air is so cold between them that for a moment Harry thinks it might snow, if it were possible. Niall’s face has gone a frightful shade of grey, and Harry’s suddenly very aware that he’s scaring the absolute hell out of the boy. Nothing ever scares Niall, and it takes a lot to make him sad, but the way that he’s looking at Harry just screams terror and pity and _what the fuck are we going to do with you you’re losing your fucking mind_ and Harry sighs._ _

__“You should go, Ni.”_ _

__“I don’t know that I should, Harry, have you seen yourself?” Niall replies, voice still shaking. Harry rolls over in his bed to face the window, pulling the duvet up over his body._ _

__“Niall, I thought he was here-- he was here and he woke me up and we made breakfast and then he was gone and there was just me and his soggy pancakes I don’t even know if I’m still here, really,” Harry says._ _

__Niall’s silent, and Harry can’t quite be sure of what he’s doing, but then there’s footsteps towards the bed. The duvet lifts and Niall climbs in under the covers, wrapping his arms around Harry from behind._ _

__“You’re real, I promise,” Niall whispers into his ear. “And I’m not leaving. Go to sleep, Harry.”_ _

__This time Niall’s voice is all full of authority and calm and Harry can’t help but wonder how he snaps out of being terrified so quickly because he knows that if he walked in on any of the lads in his position he’d probably just freak out and squeal at everybody._ _

__He's awake long enough to hear Niall whisper something about being terribly sorry, but it doesn't make sense because sleep is dragging him under and he doesn't think he wants to hear any more words today. For the first time in weeks, sleep comes particularly easy (most likely due to exhaustion), and instead of nightmares, it’s Nick that greets him on the other side. He holds out a hand, and Harry takes it, striding away from Niall and his home and Liam and Louis and Zayn and everything because Nick’s still alive here and that’s all that matters._ _


	2. Chapter 2

**We used to play outside when we were young  
And full of life and full of love ~~**

_One hundred and twelve days since._

Harry can feel Louis’ eyes burning into the back of his head and it’s really quite awful. They’ve all been dragged off to rehearsals for a performance Harry knows nothing about, though the rest of the boys appear well informed. Their management give him filthy looks as though he’s the biggest burden on their money making and he realizes that it’s probably true.

Liam and Niall, the ever encouraging duo continually try to make him laugh; tell him that he’s doing really well. It never really works much. After three hours of terrible singing and pathetic attempts to look like he’s enjoying himself, the boys pull him aside for yet another lecture. Liam takes the lead, as per usual, leaving the other three boys to stand behind him, all sad eyed and full of pity.

“Harry, at some point you’re going to have to pick yourself up, yeah?” Liam begins. “I understand you’re sad--“

_(Do you, Liam? Do you? I don’t think you do.)_

“And we just want the best for you, Harry, and you’re letting yourself go to waste and it’s not nice, and we want to be here for you, if you’d let us in. We understand how you feel mate--“

_(No you don’t. Nobody does)_

“And we’re so sorry, but do you really think Nick would want you like this?”

Harry can feel the blood boiling in his ears as _that name_ resounds through his head. Most people are too scared to mention him around Harry, like it’s some incredibly dangerous taboo word and Harry might throw himself off a cliff at the sound of it. It’s not though, and the fact that it affects him so much now is really just irritating, as Harry's about one hundred percent sure that it’s everybody’s tiptoeing around him that’s stopping anything from getting better.

“I wouldn’t want you like this, Harold, you were much more fun before. Now you’re just all mopey and boring,” Nick says from behind him.

Harry spins his head around. “What?”

Liam shakes his head. “I was saying, that I don’t think Nick--“

“No, not you,” Harry says, but can’t tell them what he really heard, because they’ll kill him if they find out that the voices haven’t gone away. Their management suggested therapy after the pancake incident (much to Harry’s disgust, it was Liam who dobbed him in, because of course he’s always been the sensible one and of course the people in charge need to be made aware of these things); Niall and Louis practically forced it onto him, but it really didn’t help much at all. Because Nick is still everywhere all at once. Present tense.

The boys are all still staring, seemingly confused, and Harry figures he owes them some sort of explanation.

“He was-- _is_ my best friend, Liam, I can’t just....forget.” He says, but before he can say any more, Louis stands.

“Good to see I made a lasting impression,” he says casually as he walks to the mini-fridge in the corner of the room. The words sting. Louis has a way of being demanding, and controlling, and he’s probably the most manipulative person Harry’s ever met. Harry never saw it at first, but over time it became apparent that his favourite way of getting his own way, was to insult you by making you feel bad for him.

Funny, adorable, loud, outrageous. The public have their words for Louis. ‘Leader’ is another that often comes to their minds, but what they don’t know is that Louis’ need for control is so much more than the desire to be the leader.

It’s manipulation at its finest.

 

_Four hundred and twelve days before._

Harry finds Louis in the living room watching reruns of _Friends_ when he arrives home, and smiles. “Hey.”

“How was your little outing then?” Louis says, eyes not leaving the television. There’s a sharp undertone in his voice and Harry isn’t sure whether or not to mention it. He’s been noticing that same edge to his voice more and more lately, most often when Harry arrives home after having spent time with Nick. It’s not like he spends any less time with Louis, or that he doesn’t love Louis any more or any less. Nick’s just a new friend. It’s stupid because Louis makes new friends all the time and Harry’s never said a word, but then again, Harry isn’t a control freak in the same way that Louis has always been.

“T’was good,” he says, and that’s all he says, because revealing further details is just dancing with the danger zone in which Louis starts questioning and Harry gets all flustered and Lou screams and Harry cries and Louis comes back an hour later to apologize for being such a freak and it becomes a drainer for everybody.

What he doesn’t say is that it was brilliant and that he and Nick and Aimee and Lou Teasdale all went to the cinema and that the film was perfect and the company was even better and that they’d all had such a wonderful night and promised to do it again next time Aimee was in the country as she was headed to New York in the morning. That it was the most fun he’s had going to the cinema in ages.

Louis is looking at him now, and Harry can see him thinking, challenging his mind for control over the situation. Wondering what to ask next. Picking his battles. Harry finds himself only staring, a small part of him praying that Louis will just drop it.

“Well... good,” he says finally, though very slowly. Not quite sincerely. Harry knows it probably wasn’t, but even still he breathes a sigh of relief.

_Too early._

The next words out of Louis’ mouth are more troublesome than ever. “So Friday night then, you and me’ll go out, like old times then eh?”

_Not Friday night_ is all Harry can think because he’s already agreed to a night out with Nick. But telling Louis he can’t come because he’s going out with Nick is likely to cause world war three and he’s just standing there and gaping and staring and Louis is looking at him like something must have gone visibly wrong with his head.

“Harry? You alright mate?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Friday night, yeah?”

Harry takes a deep breath in attempt to compose himself. “Actually, I uh... I had plans. Nick asked me to...go out. On Friday.”

Louis’ cheerful face suddenly turns dark, eyes narrowing, corners of his mouth turning ever so slightly downwards. Harry immediately knows he’s said the wrong thing. Should have just cancelled. Never mentioned it.

“But you’re going to tell him you have plans with me, _right?_ ” Louis says.

Harry takes a deep breath in the hope that he might be strong enough to hold his own this time. “Well I said I’d--“

Louis cuts him off before he even gets the chance. “What was that? You’re not going to leave me all alone on a Friday night are you?”

Harry immediately knows that there is no way out of this that doesn’t involve crumbling to Louis’ demands. This is the danger zone. The only real right answer here is _yes, of course I’ll tell him I can't make it._

Louis is smiling at him now. More of a smirk than a smile; a sneaking, calculated smirk, and Harry knows it, but it’s _Louis._

Harry sighs. “I’ll tell him I’m busy.”

Louis stands, making his way across the living room to Harry, and plants a soft kiss on his cheek. Harry feels a shiver run through him, and Louis grins as he whispers “I knew you’d do the right thing.”

The burning sensation left on Harry’s cheek quickly spreads through his whole body, and he finds himself smiling even though he never intended on giving Louis the satisfaction of being successful in his endeavour to control Harry’s life. It’s too late though because Louis is dancing around the room listing off all of the wonderful things they’re going to do on their Friday Night Adventure, because no night with Louis is ever just a ‘night out’, it’s always an adventure or an expedition or a series of escapades and Harry smiles because whether he’s been manipulated or not, this is one of the reasons he’s always loved Louis. There’s never been a single dull moment. The adventurous adventures of Louis and Harry. Always.

Harry fires off a quick text to Nick saying he won’t be able to make it and Nick replies instantly.

_Is it Louis?_

**Is what Louis?**

_Is it Louis not letting you come?_

**I forgot I already told him we’d do something Friday, that’s all.**

It’s a lie, of course, but he feels bad enough about it to really have to explain, and Harry’s found that every time he reveals the exact dynamics of his relationship with Louis people tend to freak and treat it like it’s an abusive relationship that Harry should remove himself from. He knows Nick knows this and he knows that Nick’s opinion of Louis isn’t the highest, but Harry tells himself they simply don’t get along because they’re too similar, and leaves it at that.

His phone buzzes again.

_Whatever you say, Harold. See you Monday x_

Harry doesn’t respond because he knows he doesn’t have to; between them a few words (or sometimes no words at all) are almost always enough to communicate almost anything. The ‘x’ is an added feature that’s been appearing on the end of Nick’s texts of late and Harry knows it should be of concern (and would be the end of the fucking world if Louis ever found out) but it’s nice and Nick’s wonderful so what does it even matter?

Louis is wonderful too, though, and Harry can’t help but feel absolutely undeserving of the both of them.

 

_One hundred and twelve days since._

_“Good to see I made a lasting impression,”_

Nick’s presence in Harry’s life was a concern to Louis from the start and Harry knows it. It was never fair or justified or even remotely reasonable (and was more about Louis being selfish than Nick’s influence on Harry) but Louis wouldn’t give it up. Harry can’t help but wonder sometimes how much more time he would have gotten with Nick before he lost him forever if it hadn’t been for Louis, but that’s probably just as unreasonable.

Niall looks as though he’s begun watching an intense game of ping pong, eyes rapidly swapping from Louis to Harry and back again, trying to process the dig from Louis.

Harry can only roll his eyes because it’s no point these days even trying to argue. Somehow Louis made up his mind that Nick was the only thing that ever mattered to Harry, regardless of the exact nature of their relationship prior to Nick’s passing.

“Well it’s not like you’ve done a very good job either, Louis.”

It’s Zayn’s voice that breaks the silence, rather unexpectedly too, and Louis turns to glare at him.

Harry can tell that there’s a _‘what’s that supposed to mean’_ lined up somewhere on the tip of Louis’ tongue, but everyone knows that he doesn’t really have to ask, because from the minute Harry had opened his eyes in his hospital room and screamed the building down when one of the nurses broke the news to him, Louis had been the worst best friend anyone could ever have had. Whatever problem Louis had with Nick somehow prevented him from being what Harry had needed him to be in the aftermath of the accident.

At the thought of _the accident_ Harry closes his eyes, squeezing them shut tight, and counts slowly to five. Runs a finger over the not-so-bright-pink-anymore scar on his forehead. Counts another five.

When he opens his eyes, Nick’s standing behind Louis, and Harry can't fathom how the others don't see him too because he looks just as alive as Louis does. Nick smiles and Harry wants so badly to smile back, but today it’s no comfort, because his stomach’s in knots and Louis is still frowning all he can think is that he really didn’t lose just one friend that day.

He lost two.


End file.
